Better Off Dead: The First Annual Hunger Games
by DeathByBombing
Summary: There's a difference between living and surviving. Those in the Capitol might live, but those in the districts never get the chance to. It is their children who will be reaped, sent off to be slaughtered for the enjoyment of their oppressors. They will starve and grow sick. And who helps them? Who cares? Nobody. Maybe some people are better off dead. [SYOT OPEN][18/24]
1. Prologue I: On Thin Ice

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games trilogy. I do not own the tributes in this story. Now that that's out of the way, let's begin, shall we?

* * *

_Six Months Until Reaping_

* * *

Leto "Idum" Idum - "Hunger Games Director"

* * *

_'In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and a female between the ages of twelve and eighteen at a public "reaping". These tributes shall be delivered to the custody of the Capitol. And then transferred into a public arena, where they will fight to the death until a lone victor remains. Henceforth and forevermore, this pageant shall be known as "The Hunger Games."'_

The last words in the Treaty of Treason. The very Treaty of Treason Idum, along with a small group of other Capitol higher-ups, had dedicated the last few months to write. And such long months they had been.

The Treaty had made so much sense to Idum when it was written. But nobody - nobody - could have predicted how difficult it would be to put everything together, or how difficult it would be to properly apply the words and instructions in the Treaty to the Hunger Games themselves.

The most pressing problem with the Treaty of Treason was that it contained very little information about how "The Hunger Games" should be conducted. In theory, all that needed to be written was written. But vague instructions had an unfortunate tendency to be misinterpreted.

The first piece of instruction given - _'Each district shall offer up a male and female between the ages of twelve and eighteen at a public "reaping"' -_ was one of the most disagreed upon statements in the entirety of the Treaty. How, for instance, should the children - tributes, Idum corrected himself - be picked? Randomly? By choice of the district, as was implied by saying "offered up"? Perhaps by relation to the rebels, as seemed to be one of the most prominent of opinions; these games were, after all, in penance for _their_ uprising.

The tributes were to be delivered to the custody of the Capitol. That part seemed simple enough. When it was written, this sentence simply meant bringing the tributes to the Capitol via the train systems, which were currently being rebuilt, as rebel bombings had destroyed many crucial intersections of the tracks. But, why? Why not deliver them straight the arena? It would be far less costly, far more simple. And hold much less risk; how could the children of the districts be trusted, after the rebellion?

And the arena was a problem of its own. A problem Idum would rather not think about - there were many other problems, most of them easier to fix.

Originally, he had envisioned an arena with stone walls, built in the center of the Capitol. It would be recycled year after year with each batch of tributes. It would be an arena that could seat hundreds of thousands of people - spectators, if you will.

This was the design the President herself had agreed to. This was the design Idum had made - a feat he was still rather proud of himself for. "It reminds me of the Roman Coliseum," President Astathe had told him. "Panem et circenses."

But some of his colleagues had more ambitious ideas - ideas that far surpassed Idum's arena, by way of imagination. Just that morning, Vesta Bacchus - a young and bright woman, although stubborn and quick-tempered - had sashayed into Idum's office, pitching an idea of an arena so massive that it could take days, perhaps even weeks, for the tributes to find each other.

In fact, he was just about to release the news that the arena had been decided upon - not to the public, but to those who could actually utilize the information - when he started thinking more and more about Vesta's idea. It was insane, of course. Absolutely and positively insane. But he liked it. After all, what about this pageant wasn't insane?

That very arena was what he was meeting with the President about on that rainy Saturday morning. It wasn't the typical drizzle either, the type of drizzle one could go about their day ignoring. It was the rain that seemed to be thrown down from the sky, falling in icy sheets. As if Idum wasn't miserable enough as it was.

It was Idum's job as Hunger Games Director, a title with as much mystery surrounding it as the Hunger Games themselves, to report directly to the President. He would have loved nothing more than to send a proxy in his place; President Astathe terrified him in a way few people did. But he knew the President wouldn't like that. Nobody - nobody - sent a proxy to meet the President.

So there Idum sat: in a small, armless, poorly made plastic chair. In the Presidential Mansion. Waiting.

He wasn't sure what, exactly, he was waiting for.

Idum didn't mind the waiting by any stretch - he was just curious. Actually, the wait was a reprieve of sorts, and he would take it as such. He patted down his hair and straitened his tie. He looked over his papers and made sure he had memorized all the correct figures; the last thing he needed was to say the wrong number or words. The President would already be hesitant enough as it was about such an arena. He didn't need to give her another reason to turn him down.

The buzz of a phone broke Idum's calm demeanor, and he sprung to his feet on instinct, rather than by conscious decision. Most phones' obnoxious ringing had been replaced by the much quieter buzzing noise. During the rebellion, a buzz meant the call had been traced to a registered phone belonging to a registered member of the Capitol's alliance. If it rang, it meant the phone call was either being spied upon or was being traced by a rebel. It was a way for the Capitolites to stay safe, and to eliminate doubt and fear of calling one another.

It didn't take long for the rebels to hack the system, but it did work for a few months. Afterwards, there wasn't enough money - or manpower - lying around to revert to the old sound, so the buzz had become a permanence.

Even now that the rebellion had come to an end, the noise still sent a shot of adrenaline through even the most dauntless of Capitolites. It was a reminder of the rebellion, and of those who died in it. It was a reminder that the only thing between the Capitol and the districts were electrified fences and small squadrons of Peacekeepers. That was a terrifying thought. Idum could only imagine what would happen if a group of rebels breached the Capitol's borders...

Pricilla Verr, a somewhat bulky woman who served as President Astathe's personal assistant, picked up the phone. She fumbled for a pen and began jotting down a few notes on a nearby scrap of paper, nodding her head every once in a while.

"Leto Idum," Pricilla called, looking up from her desk.

Idum cringed subconsciously at hearing his full name. He'd never liked it very much. Then again, he'd never liked his father very much either; he had been a greedy man with a silver tongue and an evil grin. That's why Idum chose to shed the name Leto Maximus Junior the very same month the man died, replacing it with his mother's maiden name: Idum, which he promptly donned as his nickname.

Pricilla motioned to the ornately carved door leading to the President's private study. Slowly, shakily, Idum stood. With a great amount of hesitation, he pushed down on the door handle and stepped inside the lion's den.

There was only one chair in the President's office. That was the chair behind Astathe's desk; the chair the President - and only the President - sat on. Everyone who visited the President had to stand. It would be unimaginably rude for them to sit in her presence.

Idum stood patiently as President Astathe examined and signed paper after paper. He didn't dare clear his throat or begin talking. She was making it very clear that they would talk, when she was ready. When she wanted to speak. When she had the time, the patience, the desire to do so.

After what must have been half a century, the President looked up, folding her hands on her desk.

"Madame President," Idum greeted the woman, bowing his head respectfully.

"Over the phone, you mentioned you had a problem. Something about the arena."

Idum shrugged her bluntness off. The President was a busy woman, with little time or use for small talk. He knew her well enough - from brief moments of passing and the interview he had for his job - to know that much about the woman.

"Yes. Vesta Bacchus - you know her. Father was a celebrated army general - came into my office this morning, pitching an idea for an arena."

She sighed. "I was under the impression that we had settled on the arena."

"Yes. We had agreed on that," Idum whispered to the floor.

"Why are we trying to fix problems that have already been solved? Especially when there are so many more that still need to be addressed."

"This isn't me attempting to fix a problem. This is me trying to improve something that already works."

"That much I know," the President responded. "What I don't know is why. Why are you doing this?"

"Because" - Idum dropped a folder in front of her - "just because something is fixed doesn't mean it can't be improved."

"You're correct. But you don't have enough time to do this." She rifled through the blueprints. "And you certainly don't have enough resources."

"I was hoping you would provide some more funding. That's actually why I'm here."

President Astathe shook her head in disapproval, and her face inherited a disappointed look. "Do you know how much I have on my plate? My country is in ruins, my people questioning whether or not they should have faith in me as their leader. I'm repairing everything in this entire nation, from hospitals to military bases. I have a thousand things to do, and once I finish that, there's sure to be a thousand more."

"Even if I thought this was a good idea, which I don't, I'd still have to say 'no'. There is no money left. I have nothing to give to you. I have nothing to give to anybody, not my advisors or my financers or my associates. What little I do have, I've had to scrape up, tax my people for, steal for. And I'm not letting that money go toward this project. There are more important things that have to be done."

Idum, repressing a sigh of defeat, said, "I know."

"Yet you still choose to ask me for funding. Yet you still have the nerve to parade into my office, flaunting an arena that will never happen. Because you can't make it happen."

"I can make it happen," Idum snapped. "I just need the materials."

President Astathe threw her head back, laughing manically. For a moment, Idum wondered if she was in control of herself, or if she really had gone off the rails, like the ani-Astathe activists and campaigners were saying.

"I'm sorry," Idum interjected, "but I need the funding. I need you to support me on this. I need you to either stop controlling my every movement or for you to actually help me advance this project."

"You know what?" the President asked. "I'll let you take care of this, as you so obviously want. I won't interfere, won't ask questions, won't control anything. You now have complete control over the Hunger Games and all related activities. Do whatever you want - with the funding you already have."

Idum took a pause, hesitant. This was not expected. Which meant she had a plan. And he had a good idea of what that plan was: to watch him fail. "Thank you?"

"You have six months. In six months, you'll have to have an arena ready - what type of arena is entirely up to you. In six months, the Tributes will have to have been chosen. In six months, the Hunger Games will have to be ready. And let me be the first to say that I can't wait to see what you come up with."

* * *

First and foremost, thank you for checking out this chapter of my story. This is just a prologue chapter, but I am going to spend some of this story following this story line (although most of it will be dedicated to the Tributes). Speaking of tributes, I'm assuming that's why the majority of you are here. I have a few rules for the Tributes, just so I can keep everything realistic (I have, like, O.C.D. when it comes to these things). Please read all the information below before submitting.

1) The only Career district will be District Two. This is the first Hunger Games and nobody really knows what that means, so it's unlikely tributes from District One and District Four would have been prepared. The reason District Two will be a Career district is because they'll likely have been supplying Peacekeepers before the rebellion. You can also give your tribute weaponry skills by giving them a background as a soldier in the war.

2) Keep it somewhat realistic. Do not give me a Mary Sue. Under personality, I expect both positive and negative traits. Do not give me a tribute who knows how to use every weapon ever invented under skills. You must submit multiple fears and weaknesses.

3) The highest a non-Career (Soldiers and District Two Tributes are Careers. Not necessarily volunteers) tribute can score in training is an eight. If you'd like your non-Career tribute to score higher than this, say it in the form. I'm sure we can work something out.

4) If you want to submit a potentially winning tribute, you must also submit a Bloodbath death. No exceptions.

Once you've read all of the criteria above, you may fill out and submit the following form:

Full Name (And nickname, if s/he has one):

Age:

Gender:

District (And 2 Backups):

Appearance:

Personality:

Family:

Friends:

Backstory:

Reaped or Volunteer:

Reason (For Volunteers):

Reaping Reaction:

Strengths:

Weaknesses:

Weapon Of Choice:

Fears:

Token:

Reaping Outfit:

Chariot Outfit:

Interview Outfit:

Audience's Thoughts on Tribute:

Suggested Training Score:

Suggested Placement:

Preferred Death:

Other:

-DeathByBombing


	2. Prologue II: Opportunity

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games trilogy. I do not own any of the tributes mentioned in this story. Now here's the chapter.

* * *

_Six Months Until Reaping_

* * *

Leto "Idum" Idum - Head Gamemaker

* * *

The Department of Government Construction - D.G.C., for short - was very...average.

That's the proper word, Idum thought: average. There certainly wasn't an excessive amount of employees but there wasn't a lacking number, either. It was large enough to be useful, but it definitely wasn't big enough to be considered pivotal. They had never done anything worth mentioning, but nobody dare argue that their work wasn't of importance.

It must have been, especially now that the rebellion had been stopped and there was a need for everything - _everything _to be remodeled and rebuilt and updated and repaired.

Nobody forgot about the department, exactly, but nobody seemed to remember it either.

So when Idum walked in and saw an endless sea of cubicles, grey walls, grey floors, and grey ceilings, he was all but surprised. It was no mystery nobody had a cause to remember this place. It was so dull, so lifeless, so unequivocally boring.

It was the very opposite of Vesta Bacchus.

It wasn't difficult for Idum to find the woman. She was the only person in the entire department not dressed in monotone colors. To be more specific, she wore a knee-length monstrosity of purple and orange, white platform shoes and had the tips of her hair dyed pink. She was halfway through the month-long treatment to have her skin color altered (in this case, it was being dyed turquoise) and while most stayed locked up in their apartments while patches of their skin pigmented themselves, Vesta must not have had that option.

Even Idum, who had been known to self-alter, thought her ensemble was freakish. It was hard to believe that a man as serious and grounded as her father had managed to raise such a...colorful girl. "Vesta! Vesta Bacchus!" Idum called across the office, waving a hand in the air to get her attention.

Vesta looked up wide-eyed, but sighed and returned her attention to the printer upon seeing Idum. "Go away. Whatever it is, I'm not interested. I don't want to hear it."

Idum had been less than polite when Vesta pitched her idea for the arena to him.

Despite Vesta's clear lack of interest in what he had to say, Idum wasn't in the least bit deterred. Her refusal had been an expected event.

"Can I speak to you? Preferably outside?" Idum asked, hovering over her shoulder.

"We can talk in here," Vesta responded, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. She stood up, and, with the added height of her shoes, she almost matched his height. Idum had studied psychology before the war. He had only just received his degree when the rebels first started their insanity. He knew Vesta was looking for a fight. But fighting wasn't one of Idum's strong points.

"I'd prefer it if we could speak in a more private setting."

"Why?" Vesta paused, looking around timidly. "Are you afraid that somebody's going to hear you?" she yelled, more in the direction of her colleagues than in Idum's. Some of the DGC employees raised their heads for a moment in response to Vesta's change in tone, making color rush to Idum's cheeks. It was all he could do not to bury his face in his hands.

"I need to talk to you," Idum repeated, gesturing with his hands that Vesta should calm down. This only made the skin on her face that hadn't yet been colored turquoise flush a bright red. Awkwardly shoving his hands back into his pockets, Idum continued. "Privately. If you'd like to yell at me then, you're welcome to."

The hallway was only slightly less crowded than the offices of the D.G.C. Idum had hoped to talk to Vesta in his office, but she declined the offer and made a point of picking a place with a larger audience. She clearly wanted people to see if Idum started chastising her again. Something told Idum she was already brainstorming ways to get him fired, which probably wouldn't be that hard after yesterday's debacle with the President.

Best, Idum thought, to get straight to the point. He no longer had time to waste. "I want you to work for me."

"What?" Vesta asked, face taking on an I-don't-believe-you-at-all expression. This was clearly not what she had been expecting.

Idum was about to continue when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a man glancing over his newspaper, titled _District Thirteen: The Aftermath_, watching the two of them. "Can we please go to my office?"

Eyes wide as saucers, Vesta repeated herself, seeming not to have heard Idum at all. "You want me to work for you?"

"President Astathe put me in charge of all Hunger Games related activities," Idum began, knowing no better way to start the story that led him to come to Vesta. "I w-"

"Were you not already in charge of all Hunger Games related activities?"

In that moment, it was all Idum could do not to start screaming at the woman. _Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out._

"I no longer report to the President. I have the freedom to do whatever I want with the games." Better, Idum thought, not to mention the dwindling budget and the fact that his head was frighteningly close to being severed, much like anybody who chose to go into business with him. "I want to hire you. I can't do this on my own."

"What would my salary be?"

Well, Idum whispered in his head, shit. "I can't pay you. You won't receive vacation days. You'll have to work for twelve hours a day from now until the Hunger Games."

Vesta laughed. And she kept laughing. And she didn't stop. "Just to be clear," Vesta said, once she'd managed to catch her breath. "You're offering me a job for which I will not be paid, given any time off or - I'm assuming - given medical insurance of any kind. And, to top it all off, I'd have to work for you! I hate you! I wouldn't work for you even if you paid me five thousand points a year!"

"As much as it pains me to admit it, I liked your idea for an arena. I want to use it. I want to use it to inspire generations of Hunger Games to come, but I can't do it on my own. I need you. And if all goes well, you'll have more money than you could have ever dreamed. A lot more than five thousand points."

Vesta sighed, placing her hands on her hips. "Okay, let's say this offer is real. What would I be doing for you?"

Idum smiled. "I want to make you a Gamemaker. It will be the job of a Gamemaker to assist in the creation and maintenance of the games. And _your_ main task as Gamemaker will be the arena. I want you to make something completely outrageous. I want it to be insane, fitted with traps and crazy twists. I don't want you to think of this as a government-sponsored affair, but as a game. It is, after all, called the 'Hunger Games'."

"You want me to help you kill children. And you want me to treat this as a game? I brought you those designs because I thought an amazing arena would make those kids - I'm sorry, t_ributes_ \- have more important, focused-on deaths."

Idum paused, not sure what to make of her words. "Your father died fighting those rebels," he said, slowly, carefully. "Like thousands of other dignified Capitol citizens. We gave those rebels homes, jobs, food; you've seen the footage! And how did they repay us? With destruction. With death. With violence. These are demon children, nothing like the children we understand and have grown to love. If it were up to me, we'd kill them all and be done with it."

"I thought you - somebody as prone to violence as a chipmunk - would at least be hesitant about this." A look of utmost disgust enveloped Vesta's face.

Immediately, Idum felt a sense of inferiority to Vesta, a woman he always tried to seperate and differentiate himself from. But it couldn't be wrong, wanting to see the children dead. How could it be wrong? The President herself had come up with the idea. And when they were devising the Treaty, every piece of evidence had shown how terrible the rebellion was - how costly it was.

Of course this punishment was fair. It was more than fair. It was a kindness that they weren't obliterating every district the way they had District Thirteen.

"Listen, you can take the moral high ground all you want. But this is - or was - war. People died. Good, innocent people. The districts need to be punished. Besides, we're _only_ killing twenty-four of them a year."

"I know, I know. I guess I just need to get used to it. All I ask for is some time."

Idum nodded, as sympathetically as he could, considering the circumstances. "I wish I had time to give you, but I need you. Now."

"What if I decide not to help? You have to admit it's an insane preposition. Not even the President believes in you. Your cousin doesn't believe in you."

"We aren't cousins!" Idum's mother had married Astathe's half uncle after the death of Idum's father. Nobody had a simpler term for the relationship, so people started calling the two cousins - something none of the parties involved appreciated. Astathe went so far as to make a public statement about it, and Idum would admit that he was slightly offended that the President would be that ashamed of being related to him. Sure, they weren't overly fond of one another, but he had never separated himself from her like he did others.

The way he did Vesta Bacchus, for example.

"Sorry. But, seriously, what if I don't take the job?"

"Then I'll find somebody who will." Idum readjusted his orange tie as he waited for Vesta to respond, but his comment was followed by a long, awkward silence.

He knew when he decided to do this that she might say 'no', but he expected something else. She was insane and out-there and bored. She wanted something exciting and dangerous. Then why wasn't she jumping on board?

"Maybe. I'll call you when I have an answer," Vesta said, eyes falling to her feet.

"You have a week before I start looking for other candidates."

* * *

Hi! Everything is sort of coming into focus and I have a good idea for what the next few chapters are going to look like. There are going to be at least two more prologue chapters (sorry, I know it's a little slow moving) and there might be another one or two after that. In the meantime, I'm just collecting tributes and trying to lay everything out to the best of my ability. If you are interested in submitting a tribute, the list of reserved/taken spots is now on my profile. If not, I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing!

-DeathByBombing


	3. Prologue III: Oncoming

Disclaimer: I repeat: I do not own the Hunger Games trilogy. I do not own the tributes in this story.

* * *

_Two Months Until Reaping_

* * *

Leto "Idum" Idum - Head Gamemaker

* * *

Leaning back in his desk chair, Idum pushed aside the piles of paperwork before him, desperate to do anything other than work. For the last two months, all he'd done was work. He hadn't eaten breakfast in almost two weeks. He hadn't taken an hour - much less a day - off.

He hadn't visited or called his mother in over a month, missing her sixtieth birthday party entirely. He broke a promise that day. Idum never broke promises.

When Nemean Orthrus - the Gamemaker placed in charge of hiring more personnel - had gifted Idum, and every other Gamemaker, an office in this building, Idum doubted he meant it as anything more malicious than a way to fall into favor with his boss or show off his inherited wealth. But it had grown to be something of a cage, trapping them all inside. It made them all feel guilty for not working, so everybody worked an unhealthy amount. It was leaving each and every one of them drained, to the point that multiple had fainted from extreme exhaustion.

The problem was not the office itself, which was decorated lavishly, although Idum hadn't yet gotten the chance to customize it. The carpet was lush and expensive, the color of red wine. The windows were huge, showcasing building after shining building - a painful reminder that there were things going on outside Idum's office, things he was no longer a part of. The curtains were made of silk, as was the upholstery on the two chairs facing him on the other side of his polished mahogany desk.

Idum almost - almost - felt guilt for the shape he'd left the room in. Brightly colored papers and files littered every possible surface, from the floor to his desk to his bookshelves. What could he say? He'd been working hard, harder than he'd ever worked in his life. It just so turned out that the threat of being liberated of your head was an incredibly powerful incentive. Idum wondered if the tributes would feel the same way.

He removed his glasses, placing them on his desk. His contact lenses had long since dried out. He had meant to send out of the avoxes at hand out to buy him some new ones. How had he forgotten to do that? In retrospect, he didn't think he'd remembered to buy the groceries either.

He buried his face in his hands. How had he dug himself into such a hole?

He guessed it had started with the President. That had not been a successful meeting. Sure, she gave him his current job, but look at how well that turned out for him. And she'd only given it to him so she could watch these games fail. So she would be blameless and he would be the one losing his head.

Idum had imagined many times how she would end up killing him. Something public, surely; she wanted to make a show out of it. Most likely televised. He could only hope she would grant him a swift death. And that he didn't bring anyone down with him.

That would be his greatest unhappiness, knowing that he was responsible for the death of an innocent.

And what made matters worse for Idum was that he didn't even blame Astathe. She was hanging on by the skin of her teeth, too. Her country was in ruins, the districts still had half a mind for rebellion, and the Capitolites doubted they could trust a leader whose rule had plunged them knee-deep into war. Her killing him would be a necessary move for her to make, if she didn't want to be impeached. Or worse.

But if it wasn't the President's fault, whose could it be? Not Idum's surely. He was the victim here, right? Sort of, but enough for him to seem blameless, when you added the fact that he was soon about to die. How long did he have? Just over two months, last he checked, which was a week ago. So two months. Two months to get everything from the half-pieced-together arena to the Reaping set up. And the public announcement had to be made. How would everyone react? There was truly no way to tell.

Those working underneath Idum could be held at least partially accountable for his predicament. They were driving these games into the ground, or so Idum thought. They were spending what little money they'd been given on seemingly useless additions to the games. Chariot rides where the tributes would be dressed up in costumes and paraded around the Capitol. Training, an expensive addition - a building bought; trainers paid for; and Idum, along with the other Gamemakers, would have to watch as the Tributes prepared. Where would he find the time?

Every single Gamemaker seemed even more ambitious that he was, all of them trying to claim a piece of the games and call it their own, even if it meant making stuff up.

But the people who were really responsible for this disaster, those who could always be blamed, were the citizens of the districts. They killed thousands, were responsible for the smoldering ruins that had become Panem, and they were ungrateful to the Capitol, after it had provided them with work, a place to live and a clear leader to follow.

At least they were finally being punished.

When the law regarding the Hunger Games was first passed, Idum had few reservations, if any at all. But when he sat down and got to thinking about it, he realized how morally flawed it was. And the fact he would be responsible for killing the Tributes - kids - was enough to make him sick. It took him over a month to regain his senses - a month of planning damn near lost. The districts had been responsible for a lot of death. The death of children, many of them younger than those that would be in the arena.

Hatred bubbled up inside of Idum as the faces of all those he knew - young and old - flashed before his eyes. Some of them he knew well, others could only be described as acquaintances. But all of them had one thing in common: they were dead. And they were all killed by the same people.

So this was justified, Idum thought. A way for the districts to repay their debt to the Capitol. Perfectly justified.

He just needed to make sure that he didn't mess up, a task that was proving to be as close to impossible as could be.

Exactly three days, two hours and fifteen minutes after he arrived at this somewhat troubling conclusion, Idum was approached by a young Gamemaker by the name of Hero Ovos.

Still in his office, he observed as the lithe and meek girl sat herself in the flimsy chair across his desk. She was pretty enough, although hardly noticeable with her mousy brown hair and hazel eyes. She wore loose fitting garments made out of colors as muted as those that made the girl herself.

She perched herself on the very edge of her seat, as though ready to flee at any given moment. Through the wire glasses, she repeatedly glanced this way and that. Her nervousness was infectious and soon it was Idum who drummed his fingers on the desktop uncomfortably.

"Can I help you?" Idum blurted out. The abruptness of the statement seemed to pull the girl out of whatever trance she'd been in, and her pupils dilated visibly as she returned to reality.

Without a word, she dropped a file on Idum's desk, leaning forward.

Confused, annoyed and slightly offended at the girl's refusal to acknowledge him, Idum didn't pick up the file. "What's in the file?" he asked. Once again, the girl came back to life.

"Look at it," she said, her voice abnormally squeaky and high-pitched. As if to emphasize her point, she nudged the file just a little bit closer to Idum.

Realizing he had only one way to get this meeting over with, Idum flipped open the file, where he found an excessive amount of pictures. But not pictures of the arena. Not pictures of the pointless Training Center. Not pictures of the Districts. Not pictures of the Capitol. Not pictures of anything that had anything to do with his job - with the Hunger Games.

Inside, he found pictures of mutated animals, ranging from tracker jackers to jabber jays to mudbugs. Animals that had been used to quell the rebellion, to kill the rebels and to stop Capitolites from sabotage or treason.

"I don't understand," Idum said bluntly as he sifted through the photographs.

Hera turned in her seat so she faced Idum straight on. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she pointed at the pictures and began to speak. "You can use them."

"Elaborate."

"During the war, it was my job to breed mutations to fight the rebels. We would release them after training and breeding so they could accomplish a specific job. My department did most everything from research to deciding where and when to activate them."

"Anyway, we didn't end up using all of them. As you know, the war ended rather abruptly with the destruction of District Thirteen. Some of the mutts we bred too many of, others we never got the chance to use. President Astathe is using a small amount of them on recon and assassinations, but the vast majority of them are being kept in our labs, where they have two purposes: a fraction of them will be used by the government. And the rest will be killed.

"So I had the idea to implement them in the Hunger Games. I thought they might be of use to you."

Idum leaned back in his chair, trying to process this information. After a moment of thought, he asked, "And how do you propose we use the mutations?"

"You want to make a show out of these games, don't you?"

Idum nodded.

"Put them in the arena, you know, to make things more exciting. Kill the tributes with them, scare them, herd them together."

Idum took a moment to imagine a young boy, screaming for his life at the sight of a mountain lion mutt and was, for a brief moment, sickly amused. And then Idum remembered something else. "I can't afford any extra additions right now. Exactly how many points would this set me back?"

"Have you been listening to me? At all?" Hera snapped, voice suddenly taking on a very angry tone. She then proceeded to sigh. "The government isn't using them. They're yours. If you want them. All we need is your signature."

Idum grinned. "How many will you give me?"

"How many do you need?"

* * *

Hi! So I'm back with the next chapter (yay!) and, along with it, I have a few things I want to say (please read, as they're actually kind of important):

1) There will be one more prologue chapter after this. Originally, I planned on there being two more, but instead I think I'm going to condense them into a single chapter. I'm really tired of writing these and are excited to get into the actual tributes. Speaking of tributes, if I don't have twenty four by the time I start writing from their P.O.V.s, I'm going to fill in myself with tributes. The majority of them are going to be Bloodbath deaths, but a few might last longer, although it's unlikely any of them will win. By unlikely, I mean there's roughly a zero percent chance.

2) The "reaping" chapters will be laid out as follows: there will be four chapters, each dedicated to introducing your tributes. Six tributes will be introduced each chapter. The first of these chapters will take place before the reaping, the next at the reaping, one in the Justice Building and the last one will take place in the car on the way to the train (I'll have /a/ separate chapter/s for the train rides). In which setting your character is introduced depends on how best to develop the character. If you have any preferences, please let me know.

3) Arguably the most important of these announcements is this: I have made a point system. Actually, I made it shorty after releasing the last chapter, but never got the chance to announce it except on my profile page, where it is posted if you want to check it out in the future. But if you insist on reading it here, I've shown mostly everything below.

* * *

I've decided there will be no sponsors for this Hunger Games story. Instead, I'm going to be doing something a little different. I imagine that, in this story, the Gamemakers, President, and Head Gamemaker would not have anticipated that the games would become a sport - a game. They wouldn't have predicted that anybody would take enough interest in the tributes to put money into the games. So there won't be a sponsorship system, per se, but I want my readers to have a say in the outcomes of these games. So my "sponsorship" system will go as follows:

I'll be keeping a point tally, similar to most SYOTs. However, instead of using these points to give items to tributes, you can use these points to save tributes. Once points are earned, you can submit them for a tribute of your choice. I'll add up every tribute's points at the end of each week (points will be cumulative). Whichever tribute has the most points that week will be safe. They cannot and will not be killed. These rules will stay intact until I reach the final four tributes, when points no longer matter and I can kill whoever I want.

* * *

Rules:

1) You don't have to have a tribute to use your points. Readers who earn points can use them as well.

2) You can submit points for any tribute, even if it isn't one of your own. In fact, if you submit for a tribute that is not your own, the value of the points you submitted for them is doubled.

3) P.M. me if you want to use points. Title the message "HoweverManyPointsYouWantToSpend - TributeYouWantToSpendThemOn - YourUsername." Fill in the blanks and I'll check to make sure you have that many points to spend.

4) You can start cashing in points as soon as all tributes have been introduced.

4) I'll keep track of points on my profile. The list of people with unspent points and how many points each tribute has will also be listed on my profile.

* * *

Thanks for reading this chapter (and the previous ones).

\- DeathByBombing


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